Page 1 of The Spark

2007

The first time I knew Amir Barkley had me in a chokehold, we were standing in the middle of Vibrations Vinyl & Sound, arguing over an album neither of us had any business buying with our little bit of allowance money.

I was twelve, all skinny limbs and oversized glasses, rocking a cropped Baby Phat tee under a long puffer vest, paired with baggy jeans and a fresh pair of Vans. It was my version of cool, even if I wasn’t. Not like the girls Amir liked.

He was thirteen, already taller than me, his voice deeper than damn near every boy in his grade. That low, rumbling sound used to make him self-conscious, but I loved it. Even then, I knew one day it would get him anything he wanted.

The shop smelled like nostalgia—aged vinyl, faint incense, a hint of Mr. Reggie’s cigar smoke clinging to the wooden shelves. The old neon sign in the window buzzed, flickering against the late afternoon light, casting a soft glow over the rows of vinyl. It was our place. The spot we went after school, after grabbing Slushies from the corner store, where we argued over music and talked about nothing.

We were supposed to be picking up a record for my dad’s birthday, but Amir got sidetracked in the hip-hop section, flipping through albums like he was a grown-ass man curating a collection.

He smelled like Cool Water cologne—his dad’s scent, something he wore when he wanted to impress girls. He was clutching Jay-Z’sAmerican Gangster, acting like it was the greatest thing to ever happen to hip-hop, while I hadThe Coolby Lupe Fiasco tucked under my arm, fully prepared to die on this hill.

It was something he always did—drumming beats on desks in class, slapping rhythms against his thighs in the lunchroom, driving teachers crazy with the constant knocking against any surface he could find. Sound was his second language.

I hovered close, pretending to browse, but really, I was watching him.

The way his fingers moved, the way his head bobbed like he was already breaking down a sample in his mind, figuring out how the track was built before he even dropped the needle.

He was studying the sound. And I was studying the cover art.

Because if Amir heard music,I saw it.

That was how I picked my first album, before I ever even cared what the music sounded like. Minnie Riperton’sAdventures in Paradise. A woman—regal, soft, powerful—sitting next to a lion, calm as anything, like she belonged beside something so wild and untamed.

I hadn’t known what the album sounded like. But that image stayed with me. I learned later that the music was just as beautiful. But at twelve years old, I just liked the cover.

I let my fingers trail over the albums on the shelf, feeling the textures, wondering which ones would stick in my memory.

Amir’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

“You don’t even know what you’re looking at,” he said, crossing his arms under his barely-there chest bumps. “Just ‘cause it’s Jay don’t mean it’s automatically classic.”

He scoffed without looking up. “And you do? A, you’re really about to waste your money on Lupe? That man be rappin’ like he handing out homework.”

“You ain’t got the range to appreciateThe Cool,” I shot back. “This album is art.”

He snorted, finally glancing over.

His deep brown eyes, half-lidded and knowing, swept over me like he could see straight through me. His fingers still tapped against the album cover, absentmindedly pulling out a beat, the same way he did whenever he was thinking too hard about something.

Instead of arguing, he stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, smell the faint soap-and-cologne mix clinging to his skin. Close enough that the rhythm he was drumming against the album sleeve suddenly felt like it was syncing with the pulse hammering in my chest.

My heart did something funny, but I ignored it. I always ignored it.

“Why you always got an attitude, A?” His voice was quieter now, almost teasing.

I swallowed hard. “I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” He leaned in just a little, breath warm against my ear.

“What? You like me or somethin’?”

My stomach dropped.

I whipped around, but his face was all amusement, lips curved in that slow, lazy smirk.

“Nah, you definitely like me,” he went on, grinning now. “Damn, A. If you wanted me to be your boyfriend, all you had to do was say so.”

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